LEROY

  My parents and I walk through the kingdom, and each room and corridor is adorned with the elegance of French Baroque architecture. Every archway and doorway is framed in gold and ivory, detailed with delicate flourishes that spiral like vines. The weight of silence hangs heavily in the air, broken only by the soft clicks of our shoes against the glossy, checkered marble floors and the bristle of yered fabric from my mother's dress.

  It's been a while since I've been down this hall. The corridor feels familiar. My parents don't often host guests at the pace—at least, not here, not in this part of the estate. We approach the towering double doors of the public dining hall, guarded by two men in full regalia. The guards remain motionless, their eyes sharp yet distant, fixated on the space in front of them. They pull open the doors without a word.

  The big double doors to the public banquet hall open. The guards stand silent in their positions, their eyes focused but distant. The room beyond is grand; its size dwarfs our personal banquet hall. The eborate chandeliers above the long table give the room a vish atmosphere. The crystals hang in delicate strands, some in sharp, angur prisms, others rounded like droplets of frozen light.

  This is the same banquet room where, in only a month, two princesses from each house will gather for the royal nominations—a tradition that turns daughters of noble blood into pawns for political leverage. They will be seated here, dressed in their finest, each vying for my hand in marriage. I try not to think about it. Since when did one's own daughter become a bargaining chip? Shouldn't a parent want their daughter to be loved, protected, not auctioned off?

  It's not like the rumors that have become about me are entirely untrue. I am known to be ruthless, cold, and even bloodthirsty. A blood fiend, they call me, and for good reason. I have an eldric unique to me, and an eldric has been passed down for centuries among my family; a shifter eldric.

  I've been sent into battle on a multitude of occasions. There are vilges up in the North that are left barren by war. I am often decked out in badges of honor when I appear live on television, standing between my mother and father. Most of which have been bestowed upon me in public ceremonies. Some of my most notable badges include my Iron Blood badge, sustaining multiple injuries in service without retreat, and my Chronical Mark badge for participating in a historically significant battle.

  My ability to shift into an Ivorton makes things easier on the battlefield. It enhances my strength, agility, precision, hearing, and vision. It's only fair that people assume I have no remorse for the deaths I've dealt when there are too many to count.

  Despite all of this, I would never harm a dy. The problem is, they don't know that. They don't know me. None of the noble houses or their daughters truly do. Just as I don't know them. None of us has made our proper debut into high society—not yet.

  We take our seats at the head of the table, as custom dictates. The table is shaped like a vertical rectangle. Only the royal family sits at the top—the head—of this table. That includes me, Prince Leroy; my mother, Queen Eria; and my father, King Laurent.

  My posture straightens instinctively. I can feel the weight of expectation in the room. A maid, Béatrice, opens the doors again, stepping inside with an air of familiarity. Her expression is unreadable, composed. She's worked in this part of the pace for years. A second maid follows—a younger one. Her posture is rigid, her eyes scanning the space cautiously. This must be Camille, the new maid.

  They stand along the wall next to a few butlers. The staff in the pace are to serve and not listen. Any matters they overhear are none of their concern. It's also why, once someone is picked at random to become a member of the kingdom's staff, they are never to leave. They'd know too much.

  People say our presence is like that of distant gods, not quite intangible but commanding nonetheless. I can't imagine we don't intimidate our new guest.

  What I don't understand is who exactly that might be. My parents have given me no information about the guest we're hosting tonight. I assumed it would be a colonel—someone representing the war efforts in the north. A war born from our taxation on the northern districts, a decision made st year that enraged peasants and gentry alike.

  The tax money goes to our nobles who are already so abundant in tahlets. They have to stay above a certain quota to keep their house in high standing. If a noble family falls beneath the quota needed to keep a house looking good, they are to be executed. The children are adopted by a wealthier noble family. Demoting them to common status isn't allowed, as nobles have eldrics that the common do not.

  They say the reasoning for killing the poor nobles is that they're not working as diligently as the rest to ensure the safety of their districts, so they aren't as wealthy. It is issued under an act of treason, as if they're outright refusing to work. I call bullshit. Some are just not as fortunate with their share of stolen tahlets distributed by their house. That's the tax money they get from the common people they cim to be protecting. Most of our soldiers are common folk risking their lives to feed their loved ones. Talk about beating someone while they're down. They take everything from the common and then some.

  My parents justify the tax as a punishment. They cim the North is a breeding ground for crime and rebellion, so they're taxed the most. They argue that dwindling birth rates are a reflection of their resistance against the crown. I, however, believe it's our own fault. We've severed the line between nobles and commoners so severely that the governed districts of common folk no longer trust their Houses of nobles sworn to protect them. They feel abandoned. That's why they riot.

  A lot of people argue about the reasons for this, but my parents don't listen to reason. They just pick what sounds most practical in order to steal from the less fortunate. Even if their reason is unjustified, they know it will be supported by the nobles and gullible commoners of the country.

  Despite the noble houses in the north benefiting from the commoners' taxes, they're wary of how it will affect their daughters' chances of becoming a queen. The house nobles in the north are the lowest ranking in the social dder.

  There is a disconnect between the Houses and the districts they rule over. It's a dangerous imbance. One that festers resentment. Their house isn't taking proper care of them as it should.

  I won't make the same mistakes when I become King of Nudandria. I want unity. I want a kingdom that isn't fragmented by power pys and fear. Some call it na?ve. I call it necessary.

  Just then, the doors opened, and a small girl stepped into the room. She couldn't have been more than five feet tall—barely half as tall as the 10-foot double doors—but something about her presence made the whole space feel smaller, quieter.

  Her eyes tremble slightly as she surveys the room. She's intimidated. Maybe even frightened. Her green eyes catch the light like jewels, though they avoid meeting mine. Soft, light-brown hair frames her pale, almost porcein skin. She has a quiet grace to her—delicate and ethereal. And for a moment, I lose my train of thought.

  Who is this young dy? She most certainly isn't a colonel.My father's gaze is sharp and calcuting, as if weighing every aspect of her being with a single gnce. His eyes, cold and unyielding, flicker over her. I know that look. It can make someone feel as though they're being dissected, every secret of their soul id bare.

  Beside him, my mother's expression is soft but no less piercing. Her eyes, though kind, are tinged with a subtle calcution as if she's carefully assessing her worth—her eyes soft, but never naive. Her gaze flicks between the king and me, a quiet understanding passing between her and my father, as though they both see something in her I'm not yet aware of.

  Why are they examining her so closely? Didn't they already know who she was? She's a guest in our home. Yet her posture, her hesitation—it suggests she's as confused as I am.

  Then her eyes meet mine. A flicker of something unreadable passes through them, cutting deep. She isn't trying to impose anything threatening. But her gaze—it holds something strange. It unsettles me. My expression remains neutral, but the weight of my parents' gaze makes me feel exposed.

  The silence tightens. She stands alone by the doorway to the banquet hall, under the scrutiny of royalty. The table has four pce settings—one for her, evidently. She has been invited to sit with us. That alone is telling. My father—King Laurent, finally speaks, his voice smooth but commanding, like felt draped over a sharp sword. I inherited that from him.

  "Aurelie," he says, his voice full of commanding authority. "Have a seat."

  Aurelie, her name is. I watch as her eyes dart around at the endless number of chairs lining the table. My mother sits left of my father and me on the right. Just then, a butler steps away from his post against the wall, pulling a chair out for Aurelie. She sits at the table—the chair closest to the top of the table where we sit. There is enough room for her to sit beside us, but she isn't allowed unless closely reted to the crown.

  The air was thick enough to cut with a knife. My mother speaks first.

  "Aurelie, it seems you are familiar with both Nudandria and Rebria, and you know what a glyph is. You also have a rather unique eldric."

  A glyph? Those are illegal. Rebria? There is no way someone would know of the existence of Rebria. Rebria is a secret kingdom—sealed off using glyphs that most people don't even believe exist. It's said to be uninhabitable since the war. Its very name is taboo. Until this year, I had never heard of it. And now... this girl knows of both.

  Rebria is closed off using glyphs that—Holy shit, that's right, glyphs. My mother said she knows of glyphs. Aurelie is not noble. She's a criminal.

  "Yes, Your Majesty." She replies, sweat beading her forehead. I can hear her heart beating in her chest from where I sit. Then again, it's hard to miss with my eldric.

  "That's more than most royals know," my mother says. "You understand how dangerous this knowledge is? If you were allowed to act freely, you could jeopardize the crown."It's true. The truth about Rebria and the ancient Valkmir war could destroy us. If people ever learned that the royal bloodline of Nudandria descends from shifters—eldric-born warriors who once went rogue—we'd be dethroned in a heartbeat. Only one heir can possess the shifter ability at a time. My own shifter form is that of the Ivorton—a lineage of power I was born into. Not passed down, but awakened in me. My second eldric—my soul-bound form—is a constant part of me. This is a reminder of the legacy I must protect.

  Yet, I am nothing like the horrific siren Valentina Faen, and never will be. I don't have the ability to shift into a siren. I am an Ivorton. The legend does not warn others of a shifter like me and all the ancestors before me who've also inherited the Ivorton. Still, a shifter alone taking the throne, year after year, is enough to make any right-minded commoner fear the day I may snap just like the siren of long ago did. I'm sure the nobles would stop at nothing to dethrone us if it meant they had a chance of inheriting the crown. It's not like I can summon serpents from the sea—or anything for that matter. Bck magic is a lost art of old.

  "Yes, Your Majesty. I would never say a thing about the glyphs." Her voice falters, becoming more uneven with each word that falls off her tongue.

  "What shall we do with you, then? Keep you locked up, or have you beheaded?" My mother asks, a hint of amusement in her tone as she tilts her head slightly, her expression smug. She's always had a way with words. I can tell she isn't serious, but Aurelie can't. She shifts in her seat uncomfortably, and the sound of her blood pulsing through her veins grows louder.

  "I could serve as a maid, Your Majesty."

  My mother ughs softly, covering her mouth with poise."How many maids in the kingdom possess the danger of an eldric, hm? Princess Aurelie?"

  Aurelie pauses for a moment, wordless. Then, she reluctantly agrees. "None, Your Majesty,"

  Turning to King Laurent, my mother says, "Well, oddly enough, my son, too, is a shifter."

  A shifter?! This girl is a fucking shifter?! My fists clench the cutlery on the table, absentmindedly. The pieces click. She is from Rebria, a country said to have been wiped out by the Valkmir. She not only knows of Rebria, but she escaped rebria with her glyphs. If not an Ivorton, the only other shifter to exist is a siren. I can't know for sure, though, as my shifting eldric was never transcribed in history. But those eyes. Her eyes are unmistakable. If she is a siren, she is maniputive. How could they trust her? Better yet, why wouldn't they trust me with this information?

  "What was that?!" I seethe, gring at my mother. Aurelie looks just as confused, but not as mad.

  "She is a shifter." My mother responds curtly, her expression neutral.

  "You didn't think to inform me?!"

  "You are scaring our guest, son. You are not yet king. You aren't entitled to know everything." Her voice is calm, but with a hint of annoyance now.

  "I am a shifter. This is my business." I retort, my voice rising up an octave.

  "I made you a shifter when I gave birth to you. I said enough." My mother demands. I leaned back in my chair, my jaw clenched. I look to Aurelie and my father for a beat.

  Aurelie is rigid in her seat. She looks as though she's ready to bolt. But she wouldn't. That would be disrespectful to us as hosts. Her eyes focused down at her pte as she anxiously fiddled with the brim of it. I've been taught to pick up on the details of one's mannerisms. She is by far the easiest person I have met to read.

  My father is still stoic and gives me a disapproving gre. He's always been a man of few words. That is, until he's mad.

  "I came here to speak of the war efforts up North. Not to entertain a criminal." I stand up and push my chair back in pce under the table, excusing myself. I'm still pissed. It's clear they don't trust me with the truth surrounding a random girl, let alone any real responsibility. They love control. They have their hands in everything, including who I choose to marry. I'm beginning to think they will forever try to control me, even as king. I won't be their pawn.

  "Leroy." My father says to stop me in a tone of caution, as if reminding me I'm being rude. The tension in the room is thick. I don't stop as I leave the banquet hall. The door behind me swings shut, echoing through the corridor.

  I'm too tired for this shit. I am no fool. I know what they intend. They want me to marry this girl because of our shifting eldrics. It's bad enough that I even have to participate in nominations. It's not like I hadn't always known this day would come; that much was agreed upon. But an arranged marriage? Over my dead body.